“No!” she yelled. “No more ball.”
She grabbed him by the waist and lifted him. He scratched her, leaving two red lines on her arms. He kicked. She struggled to find a way to hold him so that he would not hurt her, but he was wild. His scream vibrated through his Elmo shirt. She did not know how to protect him from the world. When he was older, he would not remember the Towers. She envied his ignorance, longed for it.
“Hey!” someone called. It was a kindly park janitor. “I got your ball for you,” she said.
“It was by that bin, you’re not supposed to touch it,” said Clarissa.
The janitor looked at her. “You can just wipe it off,” she said. She took a Kleenex from her pocket and wiped the ball. Clarissa wondered what sort of person would live with their child in a toxic zone, beside police barricades encircling targets of violence. She shuddered, for that sort of person was herself.
“That’s just where they keep the rat poison,” said the janitor, cheerfully.
“The rat poison,” said Clarissa, numbly. She had never thought the term rat poison would sound nostalgic, but she was strangely calmed.
DEAR CLARISSA:
You have forgotten about me. I have not forgotten about you. You were lucky. You were out of town. I had to endure your apartment. I can still feel the dirt on my skin. I cannot believe that you keep a child in that filthy apartment. You cannot control him from drawing on the walls. Furthermore, his drawings do not even show any artistic merit.
This is a pathetic way for someone who is thirty-eight to live. I figured it out. I have ten more years of life over you. Ha ha! This is how I wanted to spend it: wake up, go to the top of the building, look out and take pictures with my new camera, come down, go to lunch at Nobu, walk around SoHo, buy something for my husband, go look at the shoes at Prada, have tea at the Plaza, jet off to Zermatt, stop in London. I want it all. I have the good taste to appreciate what is worthy in life.
My refund is U.S. $29,000, payable now.
DEAR KIM:
Don’t try to pass the buck to me. You lived. You were lucky. Do you know what we were doing when you were here trying all the restaurants? Working. We are always working. We never rest. Do you know how many jobs I’ve had in the last year, trying to make some money and make time for my art? Fifteen. Do you know how close I came to getting a review in the Times? The guy came and loved my work. The word he used (and I heard him) was “groundbreaking.” Then along came this woman who videoed her own vagina and played the video to the soundtrack of The Sound of Music. There was room for just one review, and she got it. It was a good one.
I am considering the refund and the appropriate amount considering the fact that we should all rise above ourselves during this terrible time. Peace be with you.
EACH MORNING, WHEN SHE WALKED SAMMY INTO RAINBOWS, SHE first felt an exquisite rush of relief. Sammy jumped out of the stroller to a cream-colored room scented like oranges, inconceivably sweet. “Hello, Sammy,” the teachers said, as though he were a visiting dignitary. “Sammy’s here. Hello, Sammy, hello.”
They allowed him into this beautiful room and waved at her, expecting her to walk out to continue her own life. She looked at the street, and she did not know where she could go. The hallway was mostly empty. She sat and watched the children play.
The mother who had been a refugee at the Plaza was heading a committee to raise money for tuition lost when parents withdrew their children. She was taking a poll in the hallway regarding how much to charge for the tickets to a benefit. “I’m thinking something spectacular. Monte Carlo night. Dinner, casino, a silent auction. Do you think people would pay fifty, one hundred, or two hundred per ticket?”
“I would pay one thousand,” Clarissa said.
The woman looked right at her. It was as though Clarissa had told her something wonderful about herself. “Yes,” she said, softly.
DEAR CLARISSA:
It is not my concern that you never rest. You cannot get the money from me. It was your choice to pursue this “job” of artist. Why would I owe you anything? You were not honest with me. Honesty is the best policy. When Darla left her husband, she told him that she could not stand his skinny legs. That was just something she felt he should know. We all have our limits. The knowledge might have helped him in his later dating life. You should have told me about the water pressure, scribbled crayon, hallway odor, broken TV, useless air conditioner. Why didn’t you? I expect U.S. $31,000, payable now.
THERE WERE NO MORE EMAILS. AT NIGHT, CLARISSA LAY BESIDE Josh, awake, listening to the wild screaming of the cranes.
On October 30, she sat down and wrote a check for $263.75. There was no reason for this amount except that it was what they had left in their bank account that month. She did not know what to write on the note, so she scribbled, quickly, Here is your refund. God Bless.
HALLOWEEN WOULD BE SAMMY’S LAST DAY AT THE SCHOOL. THE bad tuition check for $2,000 had been sent a week before, and she wanted to stop showing up before they could ask her about it. Sammy dressed as a lion. All the children were in costume. A few mothers were loitering in the lobby, captivated by the sight of their children pretending to be something else. Sammy’s class was populated with two miniature Annies, a Superman, a ballerina, three princesses, some indeterminate sparkly beings, a dog, and Sammy, a lion. The teacher read them a Halloween story, speaking to them as though she believed they would live forever. The children listened as though they believed this, too. Clarissa pressed her hands to the glass window that separated the parents from their children; she wanted to fall into the classroom and join them.
After school, she wanted to buy Sammy a special treat. She brought him a blue helium balloon at a party store. He marched down the street, grinning; she lumbered after him, this tiny being with a golden mane and tail. Suddenly, Sammy stopped and handed her the balloon. “Let it fly away,” he said.
“I’m not getting you another,” she said.
“Let if fly away!” he shouted. “Let it!”
She took the balloon and released it. The wind pushed it, roughly, into the air. Her son laughed, an impossibly bright, flute-like sound. Other people stopped and watched the balloon jab into the air. They laughed at Sammy’s amusement, as though captivated by some tender memory of themselves. Then the balloon was gone.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Her child looked at her.
“Get it,” he said.
A WEEK LATER, SHE PICKED UP THE PHONE. “TWO HUNDRED AND sixty-three? How did you come up with this number? You owe me $54,200, why don’t you give me money?”
“Why do you keep bothering us?” Clarissa asked.
“You were lucky,” said Kim. “You weren’t where you were supposed to be.”
“You weren’t either,” said Clarissa. “You went the wrong way—”
“Maybe it wasn’t the wrong way. Maybe the Towers were the mistake. Why would I have wanted to go there, anyway? Maybe I was supposed to meet someone there, and they never showed up. What do you think of that?”